


Snippets 'n' Things

by faranth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Gen, Human AU, parental!England
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faranth/pseuds/faranth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[a collection of drabbles, short one-shots, and bits of fic--both canon and AU--that have been written over the years that are too short for their own space.]</p><p> up next:  <i>Hockey AU! NHLer Alfred Jones wins the Cup and has Feelings.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Table of Contents

_Each chapter is summarized and listed here, for convenience.  It will be updated whenever a new ficlet is added to the collection.  Most of these have been cross-posted on Tumblr._

* * *

 

**01\. Table of Contents**

**02\. the lesson:** England teaches a young America a little something about birds and growing up.

 **03\. Substitute:**  Tony fills in as the US (and his home planet's) representative at a meeting because Alfred is sick.

 **04\. Devil Went Down to Georgia:**  There ain't no one who can best him at fiddlin'. Not even the Devil.

 **05\. breath in all that open space:** America takes Canada across his land.

 **06\. Bright Eyes:** England finds a little colony and falls a lot in love.

 **07\. Croodling:** Quoth the OED: Croodle, v.; /ˈkruːd(ə)l/  
      1. _intr._ To cower or crouch down; to draw oneself together, as for warmth; to cling close together, or nestle close to a person.  
      2. _intr._ To make a continued soft low murmuring sound; esp. to coo as a dove.

 **08\. Shenandoah:**  For America, the music of his people soothes him when he needs it most.

 **09\. Heartland:** There are times when America just needs to rest, so he disappears into his land.

 **10\. First Impressions:** _Request fic;_ maybe a colonial AU where England colonized Canada first and brings (French colony, now English colony) America home for the first time

 **11\. Southern Soldier Boy & The Legend of the Rebel Soldier:** Two Civil War-era snippets

 **12\. The Ice Bear:**  Alone in the cold woods, Alfred thinks all is lost. His life is saved by a bear with strange violet eyes. **  
**

**13\. Accidental Summoning:**  Because of a stupid, drunken dare at a college party, Alfred ended up with a demon haunting him. He wasn't expecting a polite, hockey-loving Canadian demon who happened to be pretty handsome, but hey, why complain?

  **14\. Ace on the Field (and Ace in the Heart):** College hockey captain Matthew Williams never really cared about baseball. But that was before he met Alfred Jones, the baseball team ace with the gorgeous smile, bright eyes, tight pants, and knee-high socks.

 **15\. The Importance of Communication:** Matthew feeling left out/jealous because Alfred hangs out with partner-in-crime, baseball teammate, college roommate, anime/comic co-enthusiast, and sounding board, Kiku. Cue cuteness where Alfred explains that Kiku is his BFF but Mattie's special in a different way to him.

 **16\. Beautiful:**  Papa!France preparing to walk his daughter Fem!America down the aisle at her wedding? Bonuses for CanFem!Ame and irritable-but-weepy-father-in-law-to-be!England?

 **17\. Unnamed Dragon!AU:** Sir Matthew is sent to slay a dragon, but the dragon is nothing like he expects

**18\. Game Winner:** _NHLer Alfred Jones wins the Cup and has Feelings._


	2. the lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England teaches a young America a little something about birds and growing up.

"Don’t touch it," England says to America when the child spies the bird sitting in the grass below the oak tree in their backyard.

America looks stricken, and Arthur’s heart clenches at the sight.  But he holds Americas’s hand firmly to keep him from going to the fledgling bird all the same.

"But won’t it die?"  He asks England, turning wide blue eyes to him.  "Shouldn’t we put it back in its nest?  What if it’s hurt?"

"No, love," England says gently, crouching down next to him.  "The bird is fine.  We don’t need to do a thing."

"But—" America starts, tugging on England’s hand.  England does not let him go.

"Look," he says instead, pointing up into the branches.  There’s a goldfinch sitting among the leaves, watching them carefully.  

America follows his gaze, and when he sees the adult bird, he asks, “So?”

"That’s the fledgling’s parent.  See it?  It knows exactly where its baby is."

"Can’t we help them get back to each other?"

"No, my darling," England replies.  "They haven’t been separated.  The fledgling is simply learning to fly.  It’s easier to learn from the ground than it is up in the tree.  And the little bird isn't alone.  Its parents will help it along until its ready to fly away on its own."

America doesn't respond, but England can see that he’s very carefully thinking, and it occurs to England that his own parenting is much the same as the birds’:

There will come a time when, like the fledgling, America will have to learn to do things by himself; England knows this.  But he also knows that America won’t ever be alone either.  England will always be there to guide him.

"Okay, Artie," America says finally, and England shakes those thoughts away as he gazes down at his child.  It’ll be a while yet before he has to worry about letting America go.  "But maybe we could put some seed out for them?  Just in case they get hungry and need a break!"

England smiles and stands, tugging gently on America’s hand.  ”That’s a good idea,” he replies.  ”I’m sure they’d appreciate some lunch, and we do have plenty left over from feeding the chickens.”

"And it’s easier to learn things when you’re not hungry!"  America adds, grinning.  "I would know!"

"That it is, Alfred.  That it is," England agrees, laughing as they turn away from the birds.  "Let’s go get some.  And then lunch for you, too."

Together, they walk back to the house.


	3. Substitute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request fic: Tony fills in as the US (and his home planet's) representative at a meeting because Alfred is busy or sick or something.

It starts with a moment of silence: the whole world stares as the little grey alien calmly takes America’s spot at the table.

"What the  _hell_ ,” England sputters finally—he knows exactly who the alien is, having unfortunately been forced to spend time with him while visiting his brother in the US—“are you doing here?”

The alien—Tony, England remembers—doesn’t speak, per se; his mouth doesn’t move, but somehow everyone understands him when he explains, “America is fucking sick; boss  _told_  him not to get out of the goddamned bed, because it was going to get worse, and it did!  So he sent me instead.  Now, about that giant robot; my home planet has agreed to—”

Tony never gets to finish telling the nations what his home planet has agreed to as the whole conference room erupts with noise, everyone talking over one another to the point where no one has any idea what’s going on.  It’s chaos, complete chaos.

(And at the head of the table, Germany looks like he might cry.  Maybe, he thinks,  _he_  should have stayed in bed today.)


	4. Devil Went Down to Georgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There ain't no one who can best him at fiddlin'. Not even the Devil.

America meets the Devil on a hot summer night in the middle of Georgia.  He smirks at America—knows exactly who he is—and says, “How ‘bout a little old contest, just you an’ me?  If you win, I’ll give you this here golden fiddle.  And if I win...  Well, you’re  _mine_.”

It’s a bad idea to agree to any challenge the Devil poses, he understands that, but America gazes at the Devil, lips drawn together in a tight, angry line and knows that he will take the bait anyway.  “There ain’t no one,” he responds slowly, “who’s better’n me.”

So the Devil, with a hissing laugh, runs his bow along the strings of his golden fiddle.  It makes music like fire, and there’s no denying that the Devil plays brilliant.

But what America said is the truth: there’s no one on either side of the Mississippi who plays better than him.  When it’s America’s turn, he leaves the Devil gaping at him as his fingers fly across his own instrument.

And after he’s done, the Devil is laying that golden fiddle at America’s feet.


	5. breath in all that open space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America takes Canada across his land.

“Come with me,” America tells Canada one afternoon.  “I’m driving out to California.  I’d like to show you everything in between.”

Canada’s unsure—what’s out there except for cornfields and wind turbines, after all?  And it isn't so different from his own land, anyway—but he says yes because the only thing he likes more than the way America smiles is being the one who  _makes_  America smile.

They head out at dawn (“Don’t want to hit D.C. traffic, you know,” America says as he starts the car) and at first, Canada wonders why he agreed to this: he’s hot and tired and the car’s kind of uncomfortable to sleep in, but as they leave the city limits and come upon America's Heartland, he starts to understand.

And when America pulls him out of the car to stand in a golden Indiana field where they watch the sunset paint the sky pink, Canada’s glad to be there.


	6. Bright Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England finds a little colony and falls a lot in love.

He’s got the bluest eyes, England thinks, a little dazed and a lot in love as he gazes down at the child in his arms.  Has there ever been anything so bright?  He doesn’t think so.

At least, he doesn’t until the boy smiles.

Well.   _Well._

England runs gentle fingers down America’s cheek and feels the blood rushing in his veins.  It’s as if he’s seeing the whole universe come alive in the boy’s face. America giggles and brings tiny hands up to cover England’s.

His laughter sounds like bells ringing.

America leans forward and rests his head on England’s shoulder, snuggles into him like the world is perfect, and if England wasn’t lost before, he is now.

He breathes America in, milky and comforting, and holds him closer.

This is joy.


	7. Croodling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quoth the OED:
> 
> Croodle, v.; /ˈkruːd(ə)l/  
> 1\. _intr._ To cower or crouch down; to draw oneself together, as for warmth; to cling close together, or nestle close to a person.  
>  2\. _intr._ To make a continued soft low murmuring sound; esp. to coo as a dove.

Matthew is woken by Alfred’s voice and the soft knocking at his door.  He’s disoriented for a moment; it’s still dark, except for glinting of snow coming in from the window, and it takes Matthew some time to wake up enough to remember where he is.

He blinks groggily and lifts his head from his pillow to see Alfred’s silhouette. “Al?”  He mumbles, “What’re you doing?”

Alfred doesn’t answer right away, and the part of Matthew that isn’t sinking back into sleep can almost picture him biting his lip the way he does when he’s feeling sheepish.  “C’mon,” he grumbles half-heartedly, “I was sleeping.  What’s wrong?”  He wants to go back to his dreams.

There’s a sigh, and then Alfred says, “Cold.” 

Matthew can hear the trembling in Alfred’s voice and grimaces.  It had been snowing heavily all day—it still is, he can see with a quick glance at the window—and Alfred has always hated the chill.  He shakes his head a little, but there’s a sleepy smile curling along the edges of his mouth.

“Well of course you’re cold,” he teases, “you’re standing in the doorway instead of lying in bed.”

“Mattie,” Alfred groans.  “It’s too cold in my room too!  Can’t I sleep with you?”

Matthew giggles, feels that familiar fluttering in his heart that always seems to happen around Alfred, and lifts the corner of his blanket up.  “C’mere.  But hurry; I’m getting chilly too!”

Alfred’s grin flashes in the darkness before he’s sliding in beside Matthew, curling all around him until Matthew barely knows where he ends and Alfred begins.  Matthew wraps his arms around Alfred’s waist, and tugs at the quilt until it’s like a cocoon surrounding them.  Alfred’s breath tickles his cheek, and he’s warm and solid against Matthew and very comfortable.  It’s cozy, Matthew thinks blearily, like home.

Matthew feels drowsiness overtaking him again as Alfred kisses him gently and mumbles as his breathing evens out, “Thanks, Mattie.”

Matthew’s only response is to snuggle closer before he, too, sleeps.


	8. Shenandoah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Done for the kink meme; the prompt was "nations and music." For America, the music of his people soothes him when he needs it most.

Sometimes America didn’t know how he ever could bear to leave his land, why he would ever set foot outside his boundaries when all that resulted was an ache deep in his bones.  He didn’t think he could ever explain how this place that stretched from sea to shining sea was a part of him, but it was, and it rang in his blood.  When he closed his eyes, he could feel all of it rushing up and over him; he ran with his wild rivers and felt his mountains touching the sky.  He could feel bison thunder over plains that stretched on and on and was cradled in deep canyons, and nothing else mattered.

He liked to walk through his valleys and dip his bare feet in streams whenever he could get away from government and conflict.  The cool rush of water over his skin and the prickle of grass beneath his back as he lounged in the sun calmed his nerves in the way he imagined mothers soothed worry from their children’s brows when they were frightened or ill, and when everything became too much for him to handle, he would go to where there was nothing but wilderness for miles and remember himself.

Once in awhile, he went to skip rocks across water to see how far they’d go before they sank and he’d wonder how much longer it’d be before he, too, drowned.  He’d close his eyes, then, and wish that he could curl up in the green of his land, joined to it like he was before he awoke into consciousness.

Being away was hard.  It was disconcerting when America left, and he wondered, although he never mentioned it, if the others felt that same emptiness when they couldn’t hear the earth whispering in a language no one else understood. 

And if the melancholy struck him when he was away—it did, sometimes, and he could never get to his own soil fast enough—he would turn to the music of his people for comfort, music that was sung for him in celebration and in longing. He felt the tension drain from his shoulders when soft tune of his own songs filled his hotel room: for a moment everything fell away, and he was home.

_“Oh Shenandoah/I long to see you/And hear your rolling river/_  
_Oh Shenandoah/I long to see you/Away, we’re bound away/_  
_‘Cross the wide Missouri”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Shenandoah" is an old American folk song of unknown origin, dating back approximately to the nineteenth century. It is song number 324 in the Roud Folk Song Index.


	9. Heartland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are times when America just needs to rest, so he disappears into his land.

He slips away from Washington, D.C. in the middle of the night, his old pickup truck loaded with clothes and food and an old guitar.  He leaves without telling anyone—his Boss will figure it out when he doesn’t show up for work in the morning, but he won’t tell; he never does—just gets in the car and starts driving west.  (Because sometimes he just needs to get up and go.)

He stops only twice: once to fill up the tank and once for a cup of coffee, and drives down the highway until the sun turns the sky pink.  He finds a motel then, a seedy little place somewhere near the edge of Virginia, rents a room, and falls into an uneasy sleep.  He leaves his cell phone, screen dark, buried deep in the glove compartment.  (He wishes he could leave it there forever.)

After he’s crashed for eight or so hours, he checks out of the room and is back on the road.  He stops only to grab a sandwich and even then eats behind the wheel.  Once he’s through West Virginia, he turns northwest and drives until he’s in Nebraska, in the heart of himself.  As he passes through state after state, he feels his shoulders growing lighter and the tension leaving his muscles.  (And his bones ache a little less.)

He spares only a little thought to the chaos his abrupt leave will surely cause; his Boss will cover for him as well as he can, but there is a meeting in Berlin in two days, and he is supposed to be there.  He knows there will be angry emails and voice messages on his phone when he gets back to his apartment in the city, back to the hustle and bustle and the business as usual, but for now he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind.  (And away into corners behind things like how much cinnamon to put into his apple pie and the way his arms burn after hauling hay.)

Where he’s going, there is only silence.

Or, not silence: there’s the wind across the plains, and dogs barking, and the drone of insects, and the babble of water over rocks.  It’s the sound of the world only without the voices yelling at him all the time and the thrum of modernity. (He is so sick of technology.)

He makes it to his small farmstead in the evening, just as the eastern sky is beginning to darken.  He’d called his hands and told them to take it easy for awhile—he always likes to work the farm with his own strength and sweat—so there’s no one but him and the animals and wide open space for miles around.  (He loves the way the land goes on forever.)

There’s a warm summer breeze that makes the cornfields dance and conjures thoughts of amber waves of grain and he tosses his head back to the sky and just _breathes_.  Here, he can let himself go; he doesn’t need to keep up appearances, he doesn’t need to be happy, and he doesn’t need to talk.  (Sometimes, he gets so tired of the sound of his own voice.)

The earth smells fresh and clean, and he can hear the crickets coming out.  The night is clear—he can lie in the fields and watch the stars—and it occurs to him just how much he has missed this.  (All of it.)

Something that no one understands about him is that he has always been a country boy.  He’s got some of the greatest cities in the world; from New York to Boston to Chicago to Los Angeles, his cities are the jewels of his country, but he, at his very core, is farmland.  He was built in the fields and in the soil and in green growing things, and despite what it seems, he has not forgotten this.  (He will never forget.)

Bending down, he pulls his boots off, and then his socks, and digs his toes into the grass beneath his feet.  He can feel the life of his land flowing up through his veins, and he wants to bury himself in it, beneath earth and crops and trees and wild, flowing water; he wants to remember what it is to be nothing but this.  (He thinks everything he has ever wanted is right here.)

The sun is gone, but he doesn’t want to go inside, so he lies spread-eagled right where he is.  The fireflies are coming out, and he lets laughter bubble up from deep in his belly, because it is beautiful and he is himself and he just can’t contain the wonder of it.  (For the first time in a long time, his smile is genuine.)


	10. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request fic: maybe a colonial AU where England colonized Canada first and brings (French colony, now English colony) America home for the first time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the only French I know involves telling people I want food, so instead, you may assume that any dialogue written in italics is a character speaking French.

"America," England says to the linen closet door, grinding his teeth and trying desperately to keep his temper, "America, come out of there right now."  It will not do to scream at the child; he knows that it’s hard for him, to be pulled from everything he knows, but he cannot allow America to stay barricaded in there forever.

 _"Non!"_   America screeches, his voice thick with tears, and England cringes.   _"I will not come out!  I want papa!"_

It takes all of his self control to bite his tongue—he wants to tell the young colony to use his English, but contrary to what America and France believe, he is capable of compassion.  

"America…"  He sighs, "Please come out of there, child."

 _"Go away!"_   America sobs, and England sighs again.  He’ll give in for now, if only so the boy might have some time to come to terms with this all.

"All right," he murmurs finally, moving away.  He looks one last time at the tightly shut door before heading to his study.  He might as well get something done while he waits for America to tire himself out.

Once England has left, Canada, who had watched the whole exchange from the other side of the hallway, pads quietly to the door.  He knocks lightly on it, because he’s curious about his new companion, and waits.

 _"Go away,"_  America repeats, voice muffled.  

"I’m not England," Canada says patiently.  "Please come out.  I’ve never met another colony before."

 _"Don’t want to_ _,”_  America replies, but he pushes the door opened just a little.

The first thing that Canada sees is a pair of red-rimmed, bright blue eyes.  The next is that his fellow colony has created a nest of blankets and sheets for himself.

"Hello," he says after a moment.  "It looks comfortable in there."

 _"Oui,"_  America murmurs, tugging the blanket around him.  "It is.  Very, um, how do you say?   _Warm_. _”_   He is not so good at actually speaking English, not yet, but he is obviously trying for Canada—who must be less intimidating than England is—and Canada is gratified.  

"But it looks a little lonely as well," he adds, and when America flinches he thinks that the other colony must miss France very much.  So he continues, "I’m sort of lonely too—I’ve never known another colony my age!—so maybe I can come and sit with you awhile.  We can be lonely together."

America watches him closely, almost as if he’s wondering what Canada’s thinking.  Is he only offering because England told him to?  In the end, though, he can’t deny that he doesn’t really want to be by himself; he just doesn’t want to be with England, so he pushes the door opened a little more and lifts the corner of his blanket.

 _"Oui_.  All right,” America replies quietly, and Canada gives him a bright grin before crawling into the closet beside him.

Later, when England comes to check on America, he finds the two colonies curled together, sound asleep.  He hasn’t the heart to wake either of them for dinner, so he pulls the quilt more tightly around the pair of them instead.

"Sleep well, little ones," he whispers, feeling more optimistic than he had all day.  

Then he leaves them to their dreams.


	11. Southern Soldier Boy & The Legend of the Rebel Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two Civil War-era snippets

_Southern Soldier Boy_

_“He is the darling of my heart  
My southern soldier boy”_

Matthew waits for him: looks to the south every morning and every evening and hopes that he’ll see Alfred walking up the dirt road that led to their little cabin in the woods.

So far, nothing.

The war had been going on for nearly three years now, and Matthew hasn’t seen Alfred in almost two.  His Alfred, his dearest, gentle Alfred, had left to fight when he realized that the army needed volunteers desperately.

Matthew had begged him not to go.  He’d pled and sobbed and asked what Alfred thought he’d do if he died.

And Alfred, oh he’d been sympathetic, and Matthew could see the fear in his eyes—knows, later, that he’d almost let Matthew convince him to say home—had quietly steeled himself.  “No, Mattie.  It’s our way of life being threatened.  And I’m not going to let anyone destroy what we’ve built together.”

Matthew remembers seeing him off on a rainy March morning: Alfred had kissed him and held him close and whispered, “I’ll be back, Mattie.  I swear it.”

So Matthew waits and hopes and thinks,  _maybe he’ll be home tomorrow._

 _“But I am sure he’ll come again_  
_And cheer my weeping eye”_

___

_The Legend of the Rebel Soldier_

_“In a dreary Yankee prison, where a rebel soldier lay_  
_By his side there stood a preacher, ere his soul should pass away_  
 _And he faintly whispered, ‘Parson,’ as he clutched him by the hand,_  
 _‘Oh, parson, tell me quickly, will my soul pass through the Southland?’”_

The straw of the prison pallet itches, Alfred thinks blearily, but he hasn’t the energy to move.  He hasn’t the energy for much lately, though, not even breathing.  He wonders what Matthew’s doing right now, and wishes that he were here to wipe the sweat from his brow with cool, soft fingers.

He wonders when he’ll see Matthew again.

And he wonders how long he’s been lying here, wound in his lung painful and festering and rotting within him. 

It feels like forever, he thinks, but he’s not sure.  He lost track of the days a long, long time ago, if he ever knew them to begin with.

He tries to remember how he got here, but all he can think of is the sound of cannons blasting and then searing pain in his chest.

His eyes burn and he can’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks.  He wants his chest to stop throbbing with every breath he takes, and he wants Matthew to hold him close and to whisper that everything will be all right.

But mostly, Alfred wants to go home.

(He misses the grass under his toes and the light in Matthew’s eyes whenever he says, “I love you.”)

Metal clanks somewhere to the left of him, and then there’s a cool hand on his forehead.  He turns into it, delirious, and moans, “Mattie?”

“No,” says a man, gently.  There’s darkness creeping around the edges of Alfred’s vision, and he can’t make out who his companion is.  “I’m here to see you off.”

“Off to were?” he tries to ask.  “Home?” he tries again, but it feels like his throat is closing around the words, and he can’t force them through.

“Home,” agrees the man.  He runs his fingers through Alfred’s matted, dirty hair, and Alfred feels like he’s floating and far away.

He sighs.

“Oh, good.”

_“Then the rebel soldier died.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics (and titles) are from “Southern Soldier Boy” and “Legend of the Rebel Soldier,” two songs about the American Civil War and the Confederacy. “Southern Soldier Boy” is from the era, but I had trouble finding the date of “Legend of the Rebel Soldier." It seems to be based off of the song, "Shall My Soul Pass through Old Ireland?” though.


	12. The Ice Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone in the cold woods, Alfred thinks all is lost. His life is saved by a bear with strange violet eyes.

It’s cold, so cold.  It penetrates Alfred’s bones, freezes his blood to ice.

He doesn’t think he can feel his toes anymore—doesn’t remember if he even _has_ toes, although logically, he knows he must, no matter how foggy his brain is starting to feel.

(He shouldn’t have let his friends convince him to camp in the old family cabin.  But it was Gil’s birthday, and he’d begged.

“It’s a great idea!” Gilbert had told him, more than a little drunk.  Alfred had been drunk, too, or else he’d not have agreed so quickly.  “You know you want to.  We’ll bring some girls up, have a party.  C’mon.”

And so Alfred found himself driving his old truck up the mountain roads, to the place where his family has spent every summer for as long as he can remember.

Somehow, it’s more threatening in the winter.)

Alfred’s breath makes a cloud in the air, and he tries to concentrate on it instead of the exhaustion that is making all of his muscles heavy.

Why had he come out here again?  He can’t really remember.

But his lungs are burning, the only heat he knows, and he knows that he can’t go much longer.  He’s too cold and tired, and he’s gasping for air with every step he takes.  (He’s not sure if it’s the mountain air or the cold that’s squeezing the breath from his lungs.)

There’s a tree a little ways off the path—he ignores the voice in his head that tells him leaving the path was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place—and he stumbles toward it, desperate to take shelter from the snow.  It isn’t much, but it breaks the wind a little.

He collapses against it, bark rough even through his coat.  It doesn’t matter that it is; it’s a better discomfort than the numbing cold, after all.

Alfred’s so tired.  He wants to close his eyes, just for a moment, just to chase away the darkness creeping up around him, but he knows that if he does, he won’t open them again.

Still.

Maybe that won’t be so bad.  He won’t be cold anymore, at least.  His limbs are much too heavy for him to move now, anyway, like blocks of solid ice.

Ahead of him, something rustles in the bushes, but Alfred is far too gone to notice—until he can see the shadow standing over him.

His eyes widen when he looks up at whatever it is that’s come to him, and he tries to speak, opens his mouth and tries to force words from his throat, but they’re frozen there, like frost to windowpanes.

The last thing he sees as the darkness finally comes over him is the frantic gesturing of a bear with violet eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a snippet originally based on a piece of art, although I can't for the life of me remember where I saw it!
> 
> The bit here was going to be the beginning of a larger fic, something that was a sort of fusion between "Beauty and the Beast" and "East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon" where Alfred and Matthew save each other in the end. I don't know that I'll ever get around to actually writing it, but I find I'm rather fond of the idea.


	13. Accidental Summoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request fic: Because of a stupid, drunken dare at a college party, Alfred ended up with a demon haunting him. He wasn't expecting a polite, hockey-loving Canadian demon who happened to be pretty handsome, but hey, why complain?

It was Gilbert’s fault; nothing anyone said would convince Alfred otherwise. It had been Gilbert’s drunken dare to steal Arthur’s weird spellbook and a giggled declaration that “Alfred can’t even read, I bet!”—nevermind that Alfred’s major was poetry, so  _of course_  he could read even if he could not, in fact, understand Latin—that had caused his present situation.

(“You  _summoned a demon,_  Alfred? What the hell were you thinking?” Arthur had hissed, grabbing the book even as Alfred laughed sheepishly.

“Um. I wasn’t, exactly.”

_“What?”_

“It was a dare! How am I supposed to say no to a dare?”

If looks could kill, Arthur would probably have been arrested for murder.)

On the other hand, well—

The demon, called Matthew, wasn’t as bad as Alfred had expected. Actually, for a demon, he was downright friendly! He’d carefully explained to Alfred what summoning a demon entailed and had been very upfront about the contract Alfred had accidentally signed when he’d called Matthew forth from the depths of Hell.

And upon discovering that Alfred was the captain of the university’s hockey team, he’d smiled in a way that had brightened his whole face—and  _wow,_  was Alfred supposed to be finding a demon handsome?—and said, “I’m really going to love haunting you!” 


	14. Ace on the Field (and Ace in the Heart)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request fic: College hockey captain Matthew Williams never really cared about baseball. But that was before he met Alfred Jones, the baseball team ace with the gorgeous smile, bright eyes, tight pants, and knee-high socks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (as an aside, I'm generally always happy to take requests!)

Baseball isn’t—

Well.

Baseball isn’t really Matthew’s thing. He didn’t grow up very interested in it, had always thought it slow and boring compared to the fast-paced exhilaration of hockey, and even in the spring and summer, he and his friends had simply moved from playing hockey on the ice to playing hockey in the streets.

Still, Matthew lets himself be dragged along to a baseball game with a few of his other teammates one cool spring night halfway through the season.

“My roommate is pitching tonight,” Ivan tells them, munching on popcorn as they take their seats near the home team’s dugout. “He said there’re MLB scouts here tonight and he wants to put on a show for them.” On their way to the stadium, Ivan had cheerfully told them how Alfred Jones is probably the best pitcher the university’s had in years and everyone’s predicting he’ll go far.

“He’s not already drafted?” Tino, a small but speedy Finnish right winger, asks with some surprise.

“MLB drafts different than the NHL,” Matthew replies. He might not be a baseball fan, but he knows that much.

“Da, that’s right,” Ivan says. “Alfred told me that players drafted out of high school when they’re 18 can’t sign with the team and go to school, and that teams are lately preferring to draft out universities because the older draft picks are less risky anyhow.”

“Was Alfred drafted?” Tino asks.

Ivan nods. “In the fifteenth round, by the Seattle team—I am sorry; I do not remember its name. Went so late because scouts knew he’d been planning on school instead, he told me. But now they think he will go in the first round.”

Matthew hides a grin at the pride in Ivan’s voice. He’s never met Ivan’s roommate personally, but he remembers how much Ivan had complained about him when they were freshmen and how they’d slowly started to get along, bonding over a mutual love for historical fiction and terrible sci-fi movies.

“Look,” Tino says, leaning forward. “There he is!”

Matthew shakes himself from his thoughts and turns to where number 13, in his grey uniform and dark blue high socks, jogs grinning onto the field, much to the approval of the crowd.

For a moment he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He clears his throat and tries not to blush, because that uniform looks good on him, form-fitting in a way that hockey pads would never allow, but he doesn’t think that he’s very successful, because Ivan sends him a considering look that smooths itself into a sly grin.

Matthew doesn’t like that look of his, but he puts it from his mind in favor of focusing on the field as Alfred throws a first pitch strike and the game begins.

He only remembers later when Ivan takes him by the arm and pulls him toward the clubhouse where the baseball players are emerging into the night, bags slung over their shoulders.

“Ivan—”

“Alfred! Over here!” The burly Russian ignores Matthew’s sputtering in favor of waving his roommate over.

“Ivan! Hey! These your teammates?” Alfred speaks with a southern drawl and has freckles splashed across his nose, but it’s his bright smile that draws Matthew’s gaze.

He’s even more handsome up close, even if he’s not wearing the uniform Matthew had liked so much.

“They are,” Ivan says. “This is Tino, from Finland. And Matthew.”

Alfred’s smile widens. “Your captain, huh? I’ve heard plenty about both of y’all. Nice to meet you.”

Tino greets him cheerfully, but Matthew can barely stutter out the word ‘hello.’ Alfred doesn’t seem to mind, though, because his smile is sweet, and he asks Matthew what position he plays on the ice and then listens with interest when Matthew answers.

“We didn’t have much in the way of ice back home,” he tells Matthew later, after they’ve gone for drinks and wound up sitting pressed together in the booth at the bar. “I actually never even saw much of it till I came here.”

He’s from southwestern Texas, Matthew discovers, and has loved baseball basically for as long as he could remember. He was managing, on top of baseball, to double major in environmental science and poetry of all things, and by the time the night is over, Matthew is half in love already.

When they leave the bar, giddy and a little buzzed, Alfred nudges Matthew’s arm and says, “Hey, I’d really like it if we could, y’know, grab a bite to eat sometime. It’d be fun.”

Heart pounding, Matthew turns to him and catches a glimmer of something exciting in Alfred’s big blue eyes and in that sweet smile of his. His mouth goes dry, but he manages to nod and croak:

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot too.” 


	15. The Importance of Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request fic: Matthew feeling left out/jealous because Alfred hangs out with partner-in-crime, baseball teammate, college roommate, anime/comic co-enthusiast, and sounding board, Kiku. Cue cuteness where Alfred explains that Kiku is his BFF but Mattie's special in a different way to him.

When Matthew sees how well Alfred and Kiku get along, he tries not to mind it, he really does.

They have so much in common, the pair of them, from their love of binge-watching anime to arguing baseball stats.

Baseball, in fact, had been what connected them in the first place—much to Matthew’s relief, if he’s being honest with himself.  It’s always been Alfred’s obsession, more than superheroes and video games and anything else, and it’s gotten him far.  And while Matthew’s proud of him–Alfred’s the best catcher the university’s had in  _years_  and everyone knows he’s got a great shot at being drafted to the big leagues–he can’t talk baseball with Alfred the way Kiku, a pitcher whose skills are enough to have awarded him a scholarship, can.

So he’d been glad when Alfred and Kiku discovered each other, allowing Alfred to save his most enthusiastic baseball rants for someone who actually understands the game.  

The only problem is that, well, Matthew hadn’t realized how much he would miss watching Alfred’s face light up when he talks about how his hitting is going or what new kinds or drills he’s working on with the pitchers.

It isn’t like Alfred neglects Matthew or their relationship.  He always makes time for their date nights, even after he’s had hours of hard practice, and he’s always finding little ways of telling Matthew how much their relationship means to him, which only serves to make Matthew feel guilty for being jealous.  He knows Alfred loves him.

It’s just that when he sees how much fun Alfred has when he’s with Kiku, part of him wonders if Alfred wouldn’t be happier with him instead.

And since he doesn’t know exactly how to tell Alfred his fears, no matter how much he knows he should, he keeps silent, letting it bubble slowly in his gut until Alfred notices something isn’t right and confronts him.

It happens on one of their nights in, when they’re curled up on the couch giggling to each other over some reality TV show, an empty pizza box laid out in front of them.  Matthew feels Alfred shift against him, muscles tensing just a little, before the other man sighs.

Tentatively, Alfred asks, “Is everything all right, Mattie?”  His voice is so soft, softer than Matthew has heard it in a long time, and Matthew can’t bring himself to look Alfred in the eyes.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”  He asks finally, staring down at his hands.  "Everything’s fine.“

"You’ve been acting different, is all,” Alfred says.  If he would look up at his boyfriend, Matthew would see him biting his lower lip the way he does when he’s anxious about things.  But he doesn’t look up, and Alfred breathes deeply.  "Matthew,“ he continues, voice smaller, "Matthew, do you not want to be with me anymore?”

And that startles Matthew enough that he jerks his head up, meeting Alfred’s crumpled expression with his own shocked one.  "What!  Alfred no–“

"But Matt, it feels like you’ve been pulling away and I don’t know  _why_!”

“I was jealous,” he blurts, those feelings that had been bubbling just below the surface finally boiling over.  Once he gets going, he finds that he cannot stop, and his words tumble over one another like shaky-legged puppies.  "I was jealous of Kiku and how happy you are when you hang out with him, and I know that you love me, really I do, but I couldn’t help but think that maybe you’d be better off with someone who understands your love for baseball or how to build robots or–“

"Matt,” Alfred interrupts, hands on his shoulders.  "Mattie, stop.  Look at me please.“  He tilts Matthew’s chin up and looks Matthew straight in the eye, his expression softer.

"Alfred,” Matthew starts, clutching Alfred’s forearms.

“I’m sorry.”  Alfred says.

That startles Matthew, too, and he asks, “But why?”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t notice how you were feeling,” Alfred says.  "And I’m sorry that you didn’t have the reassurance you needed from me.  Because I love you, I do.  I know that I’m happy with you–trust me to know that–and what I feel for you is different than what I feel for Kiku.“  Alfred smiles crookedly and pulls Matthew close.  "Kiku’s my best friend.  But he doesn’t give me butterflies when he smiles, and he doesn’t know exactly the way I like ice cream sundaes or how I’m a grumpy monster before I have coffee in the morning.  He isn’t the one who held me when my grandpa died or who skipped school to visit me after I had my wisdom teeth taken out and was sick from the painkillers.  He isn’t you, Mattie.”

Matthew feels his heart pounding in his chest and has to blink back the hot tears filling the corner of his eyes.  He buries his face in the crook of Alfred’s neck and shakes his head.

“No,” he says, voice muffled.  "I’m the one who should be sorry.  I should’ve told you how I was feeling in the beginning.  You can’t read my mind–much as you might want to.“  He chuckles, then, and is gratified when Alfred laughs too.

He pulls away to meet Alfred’s eyes.  "I shouldn’t have just kept it to myself,” he says finally.  "You deserve to know how I’m feeling, and it wasn’t fair of me to keep that from you.  I didn’t mean to make you worry.  I just felt so guilty, because you have so much fun with Kiku and I was jealous.“

Alfred shakes his head and grins brilliantly.  "We’re on the same page now, and that’s all that matters.  Just, next time let me know when you feel like this, okay?”

Matthew laughs and nods, then flings his arms around Alfred’s neck and pulls him close again.  "Yeah,“ he says.  "Okay.”


	16. Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request fic: Papa!France preparing to walk his daughter Fem!America down the aisle at her wedding? Bonuses for CanFem!Ame and irritable-but-weepy-father-in-law-to-be!England?

“You are stunning, my darling heart, absolutely stunning,” Francis whispers as he settles the veil over Eleanor’s blonde curls—it’s not a lie on his part; Francis doesn’t think he’s ever seen a woman more beautiful than his daughter is in this moment. 

“Thanks papa,” Eleanor replies softly, eyes already teary.  She’s glowing with happiness; Francis doesn’t think he’s ever seen her smile so widely, not even when she visited to show off the ring Matthew had proposed with.

Francis brushes a stray tendril from her cheek and soothes away her tears with his thumbs.  “Now, now, darling, don’t cry yet.”

“These are happy tears,” Eleanor murmurs, turning her cheek into her father’s gentle hands.  The gesture reminds Francis of all the other times he’s soothed her, whether it be the first time she’d fallen off her bike and scraped her knee or when she’d broken up with her first boyfriend.  After all these years, Francis thinks, swallowing down the lump in his throat, he supposes that not much has changed after all.

“I know.  But we don’t want to mess up your makeup, do we?” he teases, pulling her forward to kiss her cheek. 

“Waterproof mascara,” Eleanor reminds him, laughing, but Francis has accomplished his goal: Eleanor’s tears have dried, and she looks at ease for the first time in hours.  He says nothing, just watches her smiling, until one of the ushers knocks on the door and tells them it’s time.

“Ready?”  Francis whispers, offering his arm to Eleanor.

“More than I’ve ever been,” she says, breathing deeply and taking hold of her father.

The doors open to the sound of the wedding march, and a hush falls over the crowd as Francis leads Eleanor through them.  Her grip on his arm tightens, just a little, and Francis strokes her fingers in reply.

But they are both distracted by the way Matthew’s eyes visibly widen as they walk towards the altar—out of the corner of his eyes, Francis can see Eleanor blinking back her tears again.  He says nothing, though, because she’s wearing the most radiant smile in all the world and it takes all of his effort to keep his composure.

They reach the altar and Francis pauses; for a moment, he’s not sure he’s ready for this—not sure he’s ready to give up the most important woman in his life, the child he’s loved since she was placed, swaddled in pink, into his arms.  But Francis can see the tears rolling down Matthew’s cheeks, too, and knows that there can be nothing better than this.

“Hey, Ellie,” Matthew whispers, grin threatening to split his face.

“Hey,” she breathes in reply, and Francis can feel her trembling in excitement.

He watches them gaze at one another for a moment, the love bright in their eyes, and then murmurs, “You two take care of each other.”

Matthew answers for the both of them: “We will,” as Eleanor moves to stand beside him.  Francis gives his daughter one last kiss, curls her fingers around Matthew’s, and backs away, smiling.

Then Francis takes his seat beside Matthew’s father, Arthur, and raises an eyebrow as the other man sniffles, wipes his eyes, and grumbles, “I’m not crying, frog.  Don’t even start.”

“I was not going to suggest anything of the sort!”  Francis replies, amused.  Arthur is about to say more, to argue with Francis, but then the priest begins to speak, and both men fall silent as they watch, ecstatic, the joining of their families.


	17. Unnamed Dragon!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Matthew is sent to slay a dragon, but the dragon is nothing like he expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are bits from an unnamed dragon!au that I play with sometimes. They're in no particular order.

“And then I am torn from him, my brother,” the dragon says, and stops.

His pause is so long that Sir Matthew is compelled to ask, “What happens next?”

Alfred looks at him, eyes gleaming blue in the darkness of the cave.  “I wake up.”

* * *

_“Brother!”_   The dragon cries, jerking awake to find himself atop his hoard of riches and surrounded by the walls of the cave in which he has made his nest.

_The dream_ , he thinks, when his fast-beating heart has calmed,  _the human dream.  Again._

Alfred was never human, or at least he doesn’t think he ever was.  Still, he has that same dream all the time, and something about it feels  _more_.  If that makes sense.  Alfred doesn’t think it does, but he knows what he feels.  He thinks. 

Alfred shakes his massive golden head, fighting back an irritated rumble.  He doesn’t know anything.  He shifts his wings, stretching them to the gleaming walls of his cave. They prickle, so he shakes them and shudders.  When he curls them back to his sides, he buries his snout under his claws, as if he could sink into his bed of gold and jewels, and tries to push the dream from his mind.

But it lingers, as it always does, and Alfred’s tail lashes, slamming against the glittering quartz walls with a thunderous crack.  He growls, eyes flashing, and decides that he’ll have to  _make_  himself forget.

He’s getting kind of hungry anyway.

* * *

“There’s a dragon,” the King had told Matthew.  “It’s terrorizing the southern villages, and I want you to take care of it.  It’s already roasted three other knights, and now no merchants want to travel the King’s Road.”

And that’s how Sir Matthew the Bear finds himself heading south, astride his big white destrier, Kuma.  It’s getting progressively hotter the farther they travel, and both Matthew and the horse are sweating under their armor.

As he rides, Kuma’s hooves thump-thump-thumping along the compact dirt of the deserted King’s Road, Matthew wonders how he’s going to slay this particular monster.  He’s fought dragons before, but they had always been young, little things, too green and unused to humans to be much of a threat.  He’s never encountered a fully grown adult, and the reports all describe  _this_  dragon as massive and vicious, taking animalistic pleasure in terrorizing the townsfolk.

Sir Matthew is King Arthur’s Champion, the greatest knight in the entire realm, but even he has his work cut out for him, he thinks, grimacing.

* * *

 

“I won’t let you fall,” Alfred tells Matthew calmly, lowering his head so that his massive eyes are level with the knight’s.  “You can trust me.”

Matthew looks to the dragon’s shoulder, dipped low so that Matthew may easily step up to it.  “It’s just, well, you have no saddle—” Matthew starts, only to be interrupted by Alfred’s rumbling snort.

“Put a saddle on a dragon?”  Alfred huffs, tail lashing.  Matthew has long since gotten over the fear that the dragon would torch him, so he rolls his eyes and whacks Alfred on the nose.

“You have no saddle,” Matthew says again, patiently and pointedly ignoring the way that the dragon rears and wrinkles his snout.  “And I doubt I’d be able to hold on when you’re trying to do tricks in the sky.”

“I said I wouldn’t let you fall!  Trust me!”

“I do trust you.”  Matthew tries to make his voice as soothing as possible, and he pats Alfred’s shoulder gently, the warm hide soft under his fingers.  “It’s myself I don’t trust.  I’ve never been flying before, and we’ll be pretty high up.  Besides, I’m sure you’re the fastest dragon, and what if I can’t hold on?”

That does seem to make Alfred feel better:  “I  _am_  the fastest dragon,” he agrees, wings fluttering.  Matthew notices that his tail curls like a pleased cat, and he has to hide a smile against his shoulder.

“So you see why we need a saddle,” Matthew replies, all reason. 

Alfred’s eyes widen, just a little, and he’s quick to protest.  “But—”

“We need a saddle,” Matthew says firmly, “or I’m not getting on your back.”

And that’s not what Alfred wants—he wants to show Matthew the whole sky, wants to show him the woods from above, and Matthew’s too stubborn to be forced.  Reluctantly, he says, “Fine.”

“Great!  And I’ll need you to help me design it!”  Matthew doesn’t even bother to hide his smile this time, not when Alfred starts pouting so hard he puts toddlers to shame.  Laughing, he rubs Alfred’s eye ridges and says, “You won’t regret it, Al, I promise.  And then you can show me  _everything_.”

* * *

 

The dream goes like this:

It's high summer, and Alfred is in a meadow. The sun is bright in the sky, and the hum of insects drones on and on. The heat makes Alfred feel sleepy, so he lays on his back among the wildflowers and watches the clouds drift lazily by. Alfred's mind is hazy, and he thinks he could nap right here, even if Cook would scold him for it later, when he runs barefoot back to the palace, dirt on his knees and grass caught in his hair.

The world around Alfred seems so big, from where he lays, but distantly he knows that this is because he's so small. 

Something inside of Alfred feels like it's missing, like he should have wings and be lord of the skies, but Alfred is not a child prone to losing himself in thoughts of  _what if?_ and the sun really is so nice on his face. He pushes the thoughts of flying from his mind and stretches his arms out as far as they can reach.

"Alfred!" A voice calls him, "Alfred! Where are you?"

The voice is familiar and much loved, and Alfred pushes himself up with a laugh. "Brother!"

Then the dream begins to go fuzzy. The meadow goes dark, and a cold wind picks up all around him, clutching at his tunic and his hair. Alfred shivers and tries to call again for his brother, but he can't remember his name. He can't remembers what his brother looks like, either.

Alfred doesn't feel like laughing anymore.

Something says, "The kingdom will be mine," and then the pain hits. It's like Alfred is being pulled in all directions, his limbs being stretched beyond his limits. He screams. He screams and screams and screams, thrashing as if he could dislodge the hurting and shake it away like it's nothing, but the pain doesn't end.

He sees a flash of green, and someone wails, anguished, _"Alfred!"_

When the dragon wakes, his wings itch.

 


	18. Game Winner

It’s the perfect pass, the puck crossing the ice from Ivan’s stick to Alfred’s. The defencemen screening Ivan have no chance, and Alfred’s wide open.

It’s a mistake on their part, but it’s the opportunity Alfred has been waiting for since OT began.

He fakes to the left, waits for the goalie to follow, and then—

He shifts right and takes the shot.

Time seems to slow down, narrowing to the tips of his skates and the weight of his stick in his hands. His breath is loud in his ears, and he can feel his heart pounding hard in his chest. It’s as if his entire career will come down to this moment.

It feels like it takes forever, but it’s only a few seconds.

The goalie can’t get back into position. He reaches desperately for the puck, glove outstretched, but it’s futile.

The puck goes into the net, and the arena explodes with sound.

Alfred flings his arms up, gloves flying, and yowls with glee. Then his arms are filled with Ivan, and Matthias, and Berwald, and Teemu is leaping across the ice toward them, expression exultant.

“You’ve done it!” Ivan laughs, gripping Alfred’s sweater and shaking him affectionately. Alfred squeezes him close and, truly, the only thing keeping him from attempting to life Ivan into the air is the fact that he has six inches and a good thirty pounds on him.

“Stanley Cup champs, baby!” Matthias howls, right into Alfred’s ears, his arm heavy on Alfred’s shoulders. Alfred doesn’t know what he says in response, but he’s so happy he could cry.

“What a game!” someone shouts. “What a fuckin’ hockey game!”

Alfred throws his head back, laughing, and says, “Fuckin’ right, boys! You’re all fuckin’ amazin’ hockey players!”

Eventually they pull apart from each other and make their way to center ice to shake hands with their opponents, who’ve given them an intense seven games, and Alfred takes a moment to bask in the cheering of his hometown crowd. He looks out over their faces, eyes roving to the section where he knows his family is sitting as they wait for security to usher them to the ice.

He sees his brother Francis, cheering and grinning, hands up in the air. Ivan’s sisters are behind him, clapping.

And next to him, there’s Matthew, whose own grin widens when he notices Alfred looking, even from so far away. He twists, and Alfred can see his own number on Matthew’s back.

The sight of that, of Matthew wearing his name and number always fills Alfred with an affectionate warmth, but there’s something about the sight of it _now,_ when Alfred is high on adrenaline and triumph, that leaves Alfred feeling fiercely joyful.

He loves Matthew. He loves hockey. He loves _everything._

He throws his head back and shouts, a wordless gleeful exclamation, and sees Matthew laughing at him.

This, he thinks, is the greatest day.

There’s a bump at his back, and Ivan is slinging an arm over his shoulders, leaning down to say, “Come, MVP!” He skates them both toward the handshake line even as Alfred elbows him.

“They haven’t brought the Conn Smythe out yet,” he replies with a grin. “I haven’t won anything.” He pauses. “Besides the _Stanley Cup,_ holy fuck.”

Ivan laughs. “You will win it,” he says with surety. “You have been on fire, all playoffs.”

Alfred doesn’t know about that—so many of his teammates have also played some amazing hockey. They’d deserve it just as much. It doesn’t even matter right now, though, not really. Not when they’ve all won together. Not when he’s so happy.

_That,_ he’s definitely sure of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of a larger AU, started from this post. I've been playing with it on and off for awhile.
> 
> A couple other notes: Teemu is Finland (because I might hate the name Tino for him, and also Teemu Selanne). The other teammates are, obviously, Russia, Denmark, and Sweden.


End file.
